


Your Rightful Place

by Gerec



Series: The Dirty Bad [5]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha Erik, Alpha Shaw, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Come Inflation, Double Penetration, Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier mentioned - Freeform, Explicit Sexual Content, Forced Orgasm, Forced Relationship, Humiliation, Knotting, M/M, Non-Consensual Spanking, Omega Charles, Rough Sex, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2019-11-04 14:10:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17899589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gerec/pseuds/Gerec
Summary: Sebastian Shaw attacks the kingdom of Genosha while its monarch Erik Lehnsherr is away at war, capturing omega Consort Charles Xavier as he flees with his subjects towards Westchester.Shaw is determined to right a perceived wrong by taking an unwilling Charles as his mate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [lachatblanche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lachatblanche/pseuds/lachatblanche) in the [xmenrarepairs19](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/xmenrarepairs19) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  Fantasy-esque AU where Shaw and Erik are enemy kings/warlords who are at war with each other. Shaw somehow manages to capture Erik’s beloved spouse, Charles, and decides to take him for his own ...
> 
> Basically - lots of Shaw/Charles smut please! Bonus if it’s A/O!
> 
>  **Warning:** Threats of torture and violence (though not against Charles)

They make it all the way to the river crossing at Dunfield, three miles from the border to Westchester before Shaw catches up to them.

“Ororo,” he says, as the glow of the torches draws ever closer, a wall of light marching inexorably towards Charles and his ragged group of civilians and servants from the Keep, “take them across the bridge and then burn it behind you. Don’t stop until you get to Graymalkin.”

The guards form a protective semi-circle around their liege, weapons at the ready as Shaw slowly comes into view, riding on horseback ahead of his men. There are a hundred of them against Charles and only a handful of his best fighters; it will be less a battle than a massacre.

His second freezes at his command, and grips him by the arm. “No, Your Highness I can’t let you do this! His Majesty will—”

“Captain,” he snaps, and Ororo releases him immediately to stand at attention. “Do as I say. Take them to Erik and tell him what’s happened. _Do not stop_ until you reach him, do you understand? That’s an order.”

Vastly outnumbered and running out of supplies, Charles’ only gambit is to delay Shaw as long as possible, to give the others the time needed to escape. And he knows that only _his_ presence will provide a suitable enough distraction; Shaw would simply kill any others in his way without any regard or hesitation.

Ororo’s eyes glisten as she pulls Charles into her arms and squeezes him tight. “What message would you have me give the King?” she whispers.

“Tell him…” Charles closes his eyes and swallows, returning her embrace with equal feeling. “Tell him I love him with all my heart. Tell him I did what I had to do to save our people.” He pulls back and slowly unsheathes his daggers, eyes tracking Shaw as the man dismounts, his every action filled with pageantry yet no less dangerous for it. “Tell him to avenge me.”

 

* * *

The last thing he sees is Shaw’s great sword slicing cleanly through Sean Cassidy’s stomach, spilling his guts onto the blood soaked ground.

 

* * *

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Charles opens his eyes before quickly closing them tight, his head throbbing mercilessly as he takes a deep breath. Every part of his body aches, sore from the vicious fight with Shaw and his men.

A face comes into view right above him, staring down with a bemused grin as he struggles to sit upright. His armor has been stripped and his hands bound tight, leaving him in only his tunic and trousers on top of soft bedding. A quick survey of his surroundings finds him inside a large tent, decorated with the heraldry of House Shaw, awash with the soft glow of candlelight.

He’s still alive then, which can only mean--

“How are you feeling?” Shaw murmurs, reaching to stroke his bruised cheek with a gentle hand. Charles shrugs it away with a snarl, but it only serves to make the smug bastard laugh. “Still so defiant, my boy, after all these years? I knew Lehnsherr wasn’t alpha enough to rein you in…teach you how to behave like a proper omega.”

He refuses the bait, uninterested in trading barbs with Shaw over antiquated arguments and old grievances. Instead he merely states with as much dignity as he can - weaponless as he is except for his words - “You’re getting soft in your old age Sebastian. Why else would I still be alive after killing so many of your men? You don’t honestly believe you can use me as leverage, do you? Erik won’t negotiate with a coward like you.”

“Negotiate?” Shaw purrs, hands moving lightning fast to grip Charles by the chin, fingers digging into sensitive flesh and making him hiss. “Why would I need to negotiate with your darling husband? I’ve already taken everything I want from little Erik Lehnsherr; his kingdom, and now his beloved omega Consort.”

He’s hauled bodily off the bed and then shoved towards the center of the tent, pain flaring as his myriad bruises bump against the large wooden desk. A map of the Five Realms is spread across the breadth of it, tiny metal figures marking the placement of troops across Genosha and Westchester. Pulling himself up takes no small effort, though Shaw is quick to grab his arm and drag him back against his breast-plate, wrapping his heavy leather gauntlet around Charles’ waist to hold him in place.

“You won’t get away with this,” he gasps, as Shaw nuzzles the crook of his neck and inhales, breathing him in, nosing the faded scar from his bonding bite. Being touched _there_ , by an alpha not his mate infuriates him, even as it sends a shiver of revulsion straight down his spine. “Don’t touch me! Erik is going to—”

Shaw barks a laugh, and shoves him face down onto the map, his bound arms scattering figure pieces of the Genoshan army all over the ground. A flare of panic shoots through Charles when Shaw follows him down, his armored bulk pinning him immobile against the unforgiving surface.

“Lehnsherr is a little busy at the moment, fighting a war against your stepbrother’s troops in Westchester,” Shaw breathes in his ear, and Charles can feel movement behind him, pieces of armor being unbuckled and then dropped carelessly to the ground. “And though your Captain Munroe will bring him news that his Capital has been razed and his Consort captured, there is nothing he can do about it _right now_. He can hardly afford to split his forces to mount a rescue, until he finishes dealing with Marko and his rebels. That gives me plenty of time to consolidate my hold over Genosha…” He pauses to press a kiss to the nape of Charles’ neck, chuckling when Charles tries to jerk away and adds, “…and plenty of time to take back what should have been mine in the first place.”

“I was never yours, you bastard, no matter what my stepfather told you,” he snarls, straining against his bonds as Shaw runs a greedy hand down his flank, slipping under his tunic to brush against his skin. “Kill me, if you have even an ounce of decency left in you, Sebastian Shaw. I would rather die a thousand times than have you make a mockery of my marriage vows.”

The bastard merely laughs, chuckling merrily as he strips Charles of his tunic and trousers, the sound of fabric being ripped overly loud in the enclosed space. “Kill you, my boy? You think I’d let you get away that easily? After waiting so very long for just this moment? No, Charles, I won’t be giving you the death you so crave. I intend to take you as _my_ Consort, to warm my bed and bear my children.”

Death, he thinks, would indeed have been the kinder fate, Charles' mind reeling from what he knows now to be inevitable – his violation at the hands of the man who’d murdered his friends and subjugated his people. He resolves not to give Shaw the satisfaction of a futile struggle though, knowing well that it would only serve to feed the man’s cruelty and fuel his lust.

He can’t hold back the flinch when thick fingers brush his opening and then sinks in deep, wet with nothing but a little spit to ease the way. It’s clear that Shaw cares not at all for his comfort, as he spares no more than a few quick thrusts to ready him, eager as he is to stake his claim.

And then Shaw is clutching his hips and slowly pushing in; short, staccato bursts that force Charles to grit his teeth against the searing pain. It only gets worse when Shaw stills and then shoves all the way in, bottoming out, groaning so loudly there can be no question what the King of Lyr is doing to his royal prisoner.

He doesn’t know how long it goes on, bent over and his legs spread wide, the desk rocking precariously under the weight of Shaw’s harsh, ruthless pounding. The pain dulls once he begins to ooze with slick, triggered by his own body’s natural response to the mounting. His breath hitches with every brutal thrust of Shaw’s cock - in and then out, in again, then out; his heart beating too fast to the rhythmic creak of the wooden hinges; all of it in concert with the _slap slap_ of skin against skin and the  _huff huff_  of the man's harsh panting. 

“What a delight you are,” Shaw murmurs, kissing Charles as he rapes him, caressing his nipples, his cock, every bit of bared flesh he can reach with rough, covetous hands. “No wonder Lehnsherr stole you away from me. But don’t worry…I intend to make up for all that lost time.”

He stiffens at the mention of Erik, his face heating with unjustified shame. It’s not his fault that Shaw is a monster, and that he’s being taken against his will, and yet he can’t help but think of his mate’s reaction; his face once he receives news of Charles’ capture…

…and what will run through his mind when he understands the implication; of Shaw taking Charles for his own, fucking him and breeding him while he’s hundreds of miles away.

There are more words from Shaw, whispers against his ear, endearments laced with poison as he hauls Charles tighter, moaning with giddy pleasure as he picks up the pace. It’s rough, bordering on vicious now as Shaw pistons his hips, his breathing going ever more ragged as he nears his completion. Charles’ own vision is starting to go dim and hazy, his legs threatening to give out from being brutalized for what feels like an eternity...

Abruptly, Shaw lets out a curse as he shoves in deep, knot swelling hard and thick as his whole body stiffens. Charles gasps for breath at the sudden stretch, fingers digging into the wood at the feel of it; great spurts of hot seed filling him up, flooding his insides to overflowing. He's angry and humiliated and full of self loathing; doubly so when Shaw collapses on top of him in a boneless heap, lust sated and revenge complete.

Shaw comes a second time long moments later, with Charles still bent over the desk as they both wait for the knot to subside. The map is stained with streaks of sweat and spend leaking from his body, yet more evidence of the violence he's endured at Shaw's hands. Exhaustion pulls at his senses, dragging him under, as does the creeping lethargy from being knotted, threatening to lull him to sleep.

He jolts back to awareness when a voice calls out for Shaw, asking for permission to enter. 

“Come in.”

Mortified at being seen like this - naked and spread over the desk like a common whore, still tied to his enemy – Charles scrambles to get up and cover himself, inadvertently clenching hard around a silent Shaw. He’s immediately shoved back in place by a hand wrapped around his neck, and Charles has no choice but to stop struggling, unwilling to make the scene worse by drawing more attention to his helpless state.

Instead he closes his eyes and refuses to react, when Shaw groans and starts spurting a _third_ time, hands kneading the exposed flesh of Charles’ arse cheeks.

“Report.”

“Your Majesty, there are six left alive from His Highness’ personal guard. We’ve treated their wounds as ordered.”

Shaw hums softly in reply, patting his arse fondly like a rider with his prized mare. Charles swears he’s going to find a way – someday, somehow - to wrench the bastard’s black heart from his decapitated body. “Good. Anyone of note?”

“Captain Howlett. Summers and MacTaggert. The other three are just rank and file soldiers stationed at the Keep.”

“Thank you, my good man. Tell General Azazel to ready the troops. We’ll be heading back to Hammer Bay at first light.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Once they’re alone again, and his knot finally shrinks, Shaw pulls out of him with a shuddering sigh. He runs a thumb along Charles’ opening, intimate and possessive, fingers dragging through the seed leaking steadily down his thighs. Then he hauls Charles up again and lifts him into his arms, the very picture of a doting lover as he carries Charles back over to the bed.

“We return to the Keep tomorrow,” Shaw whispers, as he climbs in after him, wrapping his arms around Charles and pulling him close, draping a gold embossed quilt over their bodies with gentleness and great care. “And then we’ll be married, in a week’s time. Though I _am_ rather anxious to see you rounded with child, sweet Charles, so we’ll be sure to make the most of our time here on the road.”

“You cannot think that I will truly submit to you?” Charles answers, shuddering as Shaw nuzzles his bond mark again, squeezing his hip. “Erik will come for me—”

“He will _try_ , yes—”

“—and if he cannot, then I would sooner slit my own throat than carry your child in my womb.”

Instead of being angry, his words only seem to inflame his captor, as Shaw takes his mouth in a deep, bruising kiss that leaves them both a little winded.

“You will not," Shaw answers, tone serene and unaffected, entirely at odds with the threat in his words, "or I will skin your guards alive, and feed their innards to the dogs. Every time you disobey me I will pluck out an eye or cut off a tongue, or lop off a finger from one of your loyal friends. You will be a good, obedient omega and do as I command, or I shall feed their flesh to you for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Do you understand, Charles?”

He clenches his eyes closed, and takes a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Good, good,” Shaw praises, kissing him once more, and Charles is too numb – and too horrified – to pull away from the unwanted affection. “Sleep and get some rest. You’ll feel better in the morning, my boy. Once you accept the way of things. Once you realize...”

“Realize?” Charles breathes.

Shaw chuckles, his words dripping with satisfaction as he cards a hand through Charles’ sweat matted hair. “That you’re _mine_. And I’m never going to let you go.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles continues to suffer great indignities at Shaw's hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I thought I should note here that while Charles is in love with and married to Erik, the focus of this fic rests on Shaw/Charles and Erik may or may not make an appearance (depending on how much of this story I write lol). Just an FYI in case you're waiting for Erik to ride to the rescue...that's really not going to be happening anytime soon, if at all.
> 
> Edited to add: I made some anatomy changes to the fic to make it more traditionally a/o (charles has one hole that serves dual purposes) though it shouldn't affect the story in any real way.

In the morning Charles wakes to Shaw sprawled on top of him, thumb brushing his cheek, thrusting leisurely into his body still wet and full with seed. Instinctively he arches, and Shaw groans, before capturing his lips unexpectedly in a soft, languid kiss. The tenderness jars and confuses him – so starkly different from his previous cruelty - enough to forget himself and yield readily to the alpha’s touch. His captor moans and hilts himself, pleased by the compliance, and presses more kisses to Charles’ exposed flesh, mouthing at the tender purple bruises left by his own rough handling. 

Both the horror and the shame returns full force, only after Charles is filled and knotted once more, with proof of his own climax smeared all over Shaw’s hand.

“I hate you,” he says with every fiber of his being, when Shaw pulls out with a sigh, and replaces his prick with a large plug to seal in his spend. “I won’t rest until I kill you for what you’ve done.”

“Oh my boy,” Shaw answers, as he rubs a soothing balm onto the rope burns all over Charles’ newly freed wrists. “Indeed I’d expect nothing less.”

* * *

He’s forced to wear new clothing in Shaw’s colours, and to sit before the man on his horse as they begin their journey back towards the Capital. It’s a clear enough message for all who see them; that Charles belongs now to Sebastian Shaw, along with the rest of the fallen kingdom. They come upon many Genoshans on the road - all of them fearful and resigned – concerned for their Consort’s safety and their own uncertain futures.

Charles can’t quite bring himself to look upon the faces of Logan and the other survivors, to see their horror and pity over his unspeakable fate.

It takes six days for the troops to march back to Hammer Bay, and - true to his word – Shaw uses Charles as often as he can on the road. There’s no end to the alpha’s lust as he fucks Charles each morning, legs over his shoulders as he pushes in deep, driving moans and ragged breaths from his reluctant quarry.  When they stop mid-day he’s shoved onto his hands and knees, Shaw pounding him mercilessly on the hard ground, unseen but not unheard by the soldiers taking their noon meal just a few feet away. At night Charles is treated to hours upon hours of unwanted attention - sometimes a gentle, slow exploration as Shaw maps his body, uncovering hidden secrets to his pleasure; other times a more obvious punishment, rough hands and teeth marking him black and blue, his defilement made plain for all to see.

And all the while Shaw fills him with more seed, day after day and night after night, making Charles’ belly swell outwards as though he were already heavy with child. He is uncomfortably full and constantly stimulated, the sway of the horse rubbing rhythmically against the plug he must wear now at all times. More than once Shaw strokes him to a climax as they canter ahead, chuckling afterwards as he licks the spend off his persistent, questing fingers.

He refuses, the first time Shaw tries to use his mouth, threatening to bite if the alpha persists with the indignity. Shaw smiles benignly and brushes his cheek, and then orders his men to fetch one of Charles’ remaining retinue. They bring Frederick – only seventeen, not much older than a boy - who can’t help but tremble in fear at the sight of their captor up close. The King does not speak to him, nor does he answer Charles’ queries; he merely draws his great sword and stabs Frederick in the gut, watching with cold eyes as the boy slowly bleeds to death all over the tent floor.

That night Shaw lets his General watch as Charles is made to capitulate, shame burning him even as it turns his insides to ice. Azazel stands off to the side as he’s pushed to his knees, expression dispassionate though the man’s pupils widen at the sight. Those cunning eyes devour every inch of him, raking over his skin, as tangible as the slow drag of the King’s thumb against his pursed lips. He’s never felt filthier or more exposed, his naked body on display at Shaw’s will and Shaw’s command. 

“Look at me. Open your mouth.”

He shudders, trying not to gag when Shaw slides his cock all the way in, hitting the back of Charles’ throat. No enthusiasm is expected of him at least and the barest of cooperation, for Shaw merely uses his mouth the way he’s been using Charles’ hole; fucking it brutally to sate his seemingly insatiable appetite. His eyes start to well almost immediately from the force of it, hands gripping his head to hold him still, the flesh in his mouth hot and hard and utterly relentless—

A soft intake of breath reminds Charles of their audience; that Azazel is with them inside the tent, watching him gag around Shaw’s length, saliva pooling and dribbling from his mouth as he clutches involuntarily at the man’s thighs. That Shaw’s General is bearing witness to his debasement at his enemy’s hands, no doubt being painfully aroused by Charles’ abject humiliation.

“Good,” Shaw murmurs, pulling away just a little so Charles can breathe again without choking. “I would feed you myself, dear boy, but my seed is needed elsewhere. Perhaps Azazel would be kind enough to assist with your lesson? There must be consequences after all, to your continued disobedience.”    

He’s lifted up and off his knees, his throat sore and eyes still wet, and dumped face down without warning onto the bed. Like a rebellious child in need of discipline, Shaw proceeds to spank him, until his buttocks are throbbing white hot from the sting. The loud slaps mask the whimpers he can’t quite stifle, while the shock of being so handled stuns him in place. He was a child of ten the last time he’d been in such an ignoble position, when his father had caught him sneaking alone off the castle’s grounds. It’s the most helpless he’s ever felt, so much worse than when his stepfather had first promised his hand in marriage to the King of Lyr.

Charles shudders and closes his eyes, as Shaw hauls him roughly onto his hands and knees. He can feel Shaw’s unbridled glee as he slides the plug impatiently from Charles’ body; can practically _see_ the smug curl of the alpha’s lips at the reveal, that he’s dripping wet and primed for mounting.

And it rocks him to the core, how much it _doesn’t_ hurt, or feel strange or unfamiliar any longer when Shaw buries himself all the way to the hilt.

He moans, the intensity of being breached and splayed open driving a shudder of unwanted pleasure straight down his spine. It is far worse than the pain, being made to enjoy his own ruin, and yet Charles can’t help but arch back against every thrust as Shaw loudly and forcefully stakes his claim.

“Azazel, take his mouth.”

“No!”

He’s beyond horrified, blood running cold at the thought of being shared like a common whore with one of Shaw’s men. He tries to pull away even as Shaw clutches at his hips, barely holding back a scream when a rough hand yanks his head back by the roots of his hair. The vicious sting of sharp teeth, so close - _too close_ \- to his bonding mark makes Charles’ whole body tense, his cunt clenching inadvertently around Shaw’s hard prick.  

“Yes,” the man counters, heedless of Charles’ objection, his strokes harsh but steady as his captive struggles beneath him, “you belong to _me_ now, not that pitiful boy king, and you _will_ learn to obey my every command. _I_ decide who gets to use you for pleasure; whether it's your mouth or your delightful cunt. You will learn this lesson well, Your Highness, or I shall peel the skin off your vaunted Captain Howlett, one piece at a time, or remove MacTaggert's sharp tongue and pretty brown eyes from her head.”

Charles is beyond livid and too proud to cry, though his own helplessness weighs on him like an anchor, dragging him to the deepest depths of despair. He knows his friends would rather die than see Charles suffer at Shaw’s hands; would willingly endure torture out of loyalty and friendship to the Crown Prince they’ve followed since he was a boy in Westchester. For this, and for his own conscience he realizes he has no choice – and hasn’t since the very moment he was captured – but to do exactly as the King of Lyr demands.

The bastard has the audacity to chuckle, the moment he feels Charles acquiesce, sagging on his hands and knees as he’s pummeled, splayed wide and vulnerable across the bed spread. There‘ll be no escape from this, tonight or any hereafter, so long as Shaw means to keep him alive and force his compliance by holding his loved ones hostage.

Azazel approaches slowly, eyes darting between Charles’ face and his arse, to where Shaw’s hands have shifted from his hips to pull his cheeks further apart. The look on his face is full of trepidation yet filled with lust, and no small amount of worship as he moves to stand at the edge of the bed. It’s worse, Charles thinks, to be the object of such veneration; to feel any tenderness or awe from yet another who takes satisfaction without consent.

He closes his eyes, though he can’t shut out the clank of armor being shifted, as Azazel pulls himself loose from his trousers; nor can he ignore the sound of Shaw’s pleasure, the huff of his breath and the _slap slap_ of flesh against flesh. A hand caresses his cheek with tenderness, making him shiver, before the tip of another cock is pressing incessantly against his lips.

Charles opens his mouth and takes Azazel in.

They fuck him together, one on each end, Shaw on the bed with him while Azazel stands with his feet planted on the ground. What would it look like to see him thus? If the men just beyond the thin walls of the tent could witness the scene? An omega on his hands and knees, mouth and cunt full as he’s jostled back and forth between two alphas? What would _Erik_ think? To know what had befallen Charles? His Consort reduced to such degradation by a man he once called mentor and friend?

He cries out when it happens, when the knot catches and swells and ties him to Shaw, filling and warming Charles’ insides with his spend. There is so much of it, and Charles is already overfull, forced to carry days’ worth of Shaw’s seed to facilitate conception. But even that is preferable to what happens next, when Azazel groans and comes in his mouth, spurting his own release down Charles’ throat.

“Swallow it,” Shaw orders, “every drop. Or I shall bring in another, to continue the lesson.”

Not for the first time does Charles wish it with his whole heart; that he had been the one to die at Shaw’s hand instead of Sean Cassidy, mere nights ago at the river crossing.

Azazel pulls out once Charles forces it all down, trying not to gag at the bitter taste that stays coating his tongue. Unwittingly, he looks up at Azazel and recoils at the expression on his face; the General’s eyes are glazed over with reverence and gratitude, looking seconds away from throwing himself prostrate at Charles’ feet.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” he says, with utter sincerity, thanking Charles for the privilege of violating him at Shaw’s command. “And Your Majesty, for this great honor.”

“A boon well deserved for my trusted General,” Shaw answers, reaching down to cup Charles’ half hard prick in his hand. “You may give him his release now if you wish, to show your appreciation.”

And so Charles is denied even this smallest of choices, as Azazel takes him gently if firmly in hand, and strokes him to the rhythm of Shaw’s pulsing knot. He comes moments later with a gasp, spilling all over Azazel’s hand, as Shaw rocks his hips and shoots another load into his sore and aching body. 

Shaw stays in position until Azazel leaves, even as his knot subsides, and the seed starts leaking freely down Charles’ thighs. The plug is replaced as soon as Shaw pulls out, and then he’s laid gently down on his side, and made to suffer the tender administrations of his captor as he’s wiped clean and then tucked into bed.

“Do you truly hate me so much,” he asks, unable to endure in silence any longer, “that you would humiliate me so? Is it not bad enough that you force yourself on me against my will, that you would also let others use me thus? I know it was a great insult to your pride, that I eloped with Erik when I’d been promised to you, but Sebastian…how could you claim you ever truly cared for me, and then reduce us – reduce _me_ to _this_?”

For a moment Charles thinks he sees a glimmer of something in Shaw’s eyes; not remorse no, but perhaps some small sorrow over the bonds that once existed between them all. But it's there and gone again in a flash, and Shaw pulls Charles against him, wrapping an arm possessively around his waist.

“I’m a man of my word,” Shaw answers, ignoring Charles’ enquiries, or the mention of old ties sundered by betrayal. “I promised then, that I would marry you and keep you, and nothing - and _no one -_ will take you away again.”


	3. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News of Charles' abduction reaches his mate. Erik does not take the news well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know what I said in the last chapter about Erik and how he was unlikely to show up in this fic but then BAM! The Muse said we needed a break from the dirtybad for Erik's POV lol...

The door to the Throne Room is barely closed behind them before Erik draws his sword and levels it at Munroe’s throat.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you where you stand, Captain,” he breathes, his entire body shaking from fury and unadulterated fear. “How dare you come before me without the man you swore to protect? How dare you come here, alive and whole, and tell me that my Consort might be dead?”

Frost takes a hesitant step forward, but doesn’t intervene. “Your Majesty. The Captain—”

“Silence!”

To her credit, Munroe doesn’t flinch or shy away, expression blank as she takes in the full force of Erik’s ire. “I _should_ be dead, Your Majesty, for failing to protect the Consort. My last duty was to follow his orders and safely deliver our people to Westchester. And now that I’ve fulfilled it…I shall ask for no mercy. I can only tell you that I’m sorry, and I would gladly give my life a hundred times over if it meant His Highness’ safe return.”

It would be so easy, to remove her head from her shoulders with a sweep of his sword; a fitting punishment for abandoning Charles to an ignoble fate. There is no doubt in Erik’s mind that his Consort is still alive, no matter the circumstances that led to the standoff at Dunfield; Shaw’s pride would never allow Charles the dignity of a clean death.

Nor would he give up the opportunity to destroy Erik - utterly and completely - by taking his heart away.

He lowers his sword and Munroe kneels promptly at his feet, her eyes welling with unshed tears. Erik knows they are borne of sorrow and not fear; knows Charles well enough to deduce what had transpired that night, and the impossible situation he’d put his Captain in by ordering her away. It does not move him enough to forgive her - for none of the lives saved can ever compare to his Consort’s wellbeing - but her death serves no purpose now beyond giving Erik a way to vent his helpless anger.

“You will die, Captain,” he says, “but not today. You will bring Charles home or you _will_ die in the trying. You will live and you will fight and you will sacrifice everything to save him or so help me, Ororo Munroe, you’ll regret that I didn’t give you the death you asked of me today.”

He does not wait for a reply, and turns his attention now to the others in the room; his General, Emma Frost, silent and unflappable in the face of Erik’s white hot rage, and Charles’ sister, Raven Xavier, Regent of Westchester in Charles’ place.

“Half of the troops will stay here under Emma’s command while I march back to the Capital and deal with Shaw. It will mean a longer war with Marko yes but I don’t think that’ll be—”

“No, Erik,” Raven interrupts, reaching to take him by the hand and dragging him to the nearest chair. “I know you’re angry, and you’re afraid for Charles but you can’t just go running off without a solid plan.”

He shrugs her hand off with a snarl. “I do have a plan! I’m going to retake Hammer Bay and the rest of Genosha and kill that bastard Shaw with my bare hands! And I won’t rest until my Consort – _your brother_ – is safe in my arms again!”

“Yes he’s my brother and I love him too,” Raven snaps, “but we are in the middle of a war here! You cannot split your troops in half and expect to win! Against Cain Marko or Sebastian Shaw! As soon as you’re distracted, Cain will rally his men and try to retake Graymalkin, and if he succeeds you will find yourself trapped between two enemies! We must gather information and organize—”

“And leave Charles to deal with Shaw on his own? Are you mad? Do you have any idea what he’s going to do to him? What he’s already doing…”

He can’t finish the sentence, his throat catching at the words, the pain almost visceral as his mind conjures the images; his beloved at Shaw’s mercy, being stripped and _violated_ while Erik discusses strategies and tactics half a continent away.

“He’ll be expecting you,” Emma says, and her voice - devoid of the frustration that threatens to cloud both Erik’s and Raven’s arguments - manages to corral his temper just a little. “He knows how much Charles means to you. He’s counting on you to drop everything here in Westchester to get him back. Hammer Bay will be stationed now with the bulk of Shaw’s men, and those like Essex and Trask who helped him mastermind the attack. It’s likely that Marko’s rebellion here was instigated by Shaw or his allies in the first place, to divert you from Genosha while he marched his armies into your lands. If you go now you will walk into a trap and you will lose, and Genosha, and Westchester, will be Shaw’s for the taking.”

“I can’t just do nothing. I can’t! Don’t you understand what will happen to Charles if we just leave him with Shaw? He…he’s going to…”

This time he allows it, when Raven gently takes his hand. “He’ll survive, and he’ll come back to us. To you. Whatever happens…Charles is strong, Erik. And he needs us to be strong too.”

“And we won’t be doing nothing,” Emma adds, as she too rests an armored glove on his shoulder in an uncharacteristic show of feeling. “I’ve already sent Lieutenant Pryde to gather information on the battle at Dunfield and the status of the Consort and any survivors. Once we have her report we can determine how to engage with Shaw; whether we send someone with an offer to negotiate for the Consort’s safe return. In the meantime, we shall quash Marko’s forces once and for all, so we can bring the full weight of Genosha’s might upon our enemy’s head.”

It’s not in Erik’s nature to choose patient plotting over action, and it does not sit well with him now, to wait while every moment that passes is another moment of suffering for his Consort. But Charles would be the first to counsel caution and prioritizing the welfare of their people, and he cannot rightly toss aside his responsibilities as King even if his entire being is telling him to _fight_ through fire and brimstone to get to his mate.

“Captain,” he says, and Munroe jumps instantly to attention, hungry for a chance at redemption. “Go with Summers to the front line. I want you to bring me Cain Marko’s head.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she answers, bowing deep before turning briskly to follow orders. Erik appreciates the lack of any grand promise of success; he knows she will complete the task or die in the attempt.

“Come then, let us retire to my quarters,” he says, once the three of them are alone, and the anger has burned away to an ache that threatens to swallow him whole. “We need ale and lots of it…and a plan to bury Sebastian Shaw, once and for all.”


End file.
